Grace seemed torn between anger and worry. “I got her here, didn’t I? Where are you going?”
“To see Dr. Brody.”
“Nooo, Mom,” Dylan wailed.
But Deborah had known there was a problem. Deep in her heart she’d known it but had looked the other way, and all the while Dylan had known what was happening and kept it all to himself.
Deborah didn’t want to hear the diagnosis any more than Dylan did, but she did love his eye doctor. Aidan Brody specialized in pediatric ophthamology, and was so good with Dylan that Deborah was doubly sorry she had waited to bring him in. Aidan opened his office early to see them, and did the kind of thorough exam that said he was thrilled to help.
“This is nothing more,” he told the boy calmly, “than what you have in the other eye, and it’s just as curable. The pain you feel comes from tiny cracks in the surface of the cornea. There are little nerve endings under those cracks. When they are exposed, you feel pain.”
“But now I won’t be able to see at all,” Dylan cried.
“Not true, not true,” Aidan said. “You will not lose your sight. In another couple of years, once you stop growing, we’ll take care of that.”
“Will the transplant cure the farsightedness, too?”
“No. You’ll continue to wear glasses for hyperopia until laser surgery can cure it. The corneal transplant is only for your lattice dystrophy.”
“But what if it keeps getting worse ’til then?”
“Did the other eye do that?”
“No.”
“Right. It stabilized. This one will, too.”
“But what if it doesn’t?”
“It will, Dylan,” he insisted with such gentle conviction that Deborah fully believed him. “Tell you what,” he said, grabbing a card from the corner of his desk. “I’m going to write down my phone numbers at the office and at home. Any time you get scared, I want you to call.” He wrote the numbers large enough for Deborah to see from where she sat. “Now, would I give you my home number if I thought you’d be calling me every two minutes? No, sir. You’re going to be too busy with school and your friends. But I bet you’ve been real worried.”
“Yeah,” Dylan said, clutching the card.
“Bet you were worried you were going blind.”
“Yeah,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Now you know you’re not, right?”
“Yeah,” he replied, worried again, “b-but what if I lose your card?”
Aidan Brody smiled. “Your mom knows my number. She went to medical school with my wife.” He nodded at Deborah and smiled. “You can ask her. She’ll write you a new card.”
As Deborah drove home from Boston, her emotions ran the gamut from relief to fear. Aidan Brody had made it sound easy, but two corneal transplants involved two separate procedures, neither of which was as simple as removing a wart and both of which involved risk.
Conversely, Dylan was upbeat, the weight of worry off his shoulders and onto hers. But that was what mothers were for.
She stopped home so that they could shower, and when Deborah would have left Dylan there with Lívia to sleep, he wouldn’t hear of it. She drove him to school, walked him inside to explain his tardiness, then went to the bakery.
Jill was already home sleeping. Alice had things under control downstairs, and Grace had collapsed on a sofa in the small third-floor loft.
Deborah stretched out on her back beside Jill, who wakened with the weight shift of the mattress. “What’s the story with Dylan’s eye?” she asked groggily.
“Same as the other.”
Jill came fully awake. “Oh, no. Oh, Deb. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. My heart breaks for Dylan. He’ll have surgery in a couple of years, but there’s not much to be done until then.”
“How’s he feeling?”
“He’s great. Relieved that it’s nothing worse. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay, too. The spotting stopped. Where’s Grace?”
“In the loft. Asleep.”
“You need to talk with her, Deborah. She feels very guilty.”
“I try, but she isn’t biting.”
“Try again. She’s a fabulous kid. She was the one who drove me to the hospital and back.”
Deborah turned her head. “She did?” When her sister nodded, she didn’t know whether to be pleased or hurt. “Well, thank you. She wouldn’t do that for me.”
“She had a choice of driving or letting me bleed to death.”
“You weren’t bleeding to death.”
“We didn’t know that at the time. She did what needed to be done. She is like you that way.”
Deborah rolled onto her side. “I always assumed she was like me in every way. I may have been wrong.”
“She’s like you in what counts.”
“I thought she wanted to be a doctor.”
“Is being a doctor what counts most?”
Deborah didn’t have to think for long. “No. Look at me, lying here without so much as a call to the office. Jill, I’m sorry about Dad. You know how wrong he is.”
“Yeah, well, I guess we always harbor a little hope.”
“He’ll change,” Deborah said. “He just needs time to get used to the idea.”
“Spoken by someone who’s always been on his good side.”
“Not lately.”
Jill frowned. “Speaking of which, you do have patients to see.”
“I’m tired.”
The words hung in the air. After a minute, Jill laughed. “That’s something.”
It was, Deborah realized. “I’ve never in my life let that be an excuse not to work. But I’m tired.”
“Of work?”
“Of being good. Of trying to be good.”
“Of trying to please Dad,” Jill added.
“That, too.”
“What happens if you don’t show up at the office?”
“I don’t know, since I’ve never not shown up before.”
“Your patients will understand.”
“Do I care?” Deborah shot back, then quickly said, “Yes, I care—but, my God, I’ve always been there for them. If they can’t understand that just for once I need a little time, well, too bad.”
“And Dad?”
“Dad’ll be angry. But he’ll cover for me. He’ll be thinking of last Saturday, when he didn’t show up, or maybe of this morning when he behaved like an asshole. He’s probably feeling guilty. He hasn’t called my cell.” She had a thought. “Maybe he’s writing me out of the practice. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Deborah. You don’t want that.”
She smiled sadly. “No. The practice works for me.”
“It works for him, too. If he can’t understand that this is a rough time for you and that you need him right now, shame on him.”
“Dad? Can we talk?” Deborah asked from the door of his office.
Michael was at his desk reading. One hand held the pen that was filling out forms, the other half a calzone from the Italian restaurant down the street. A bottle of Diet Coke stood nearby, half-filled with what was clearly a dark liquid. If he was drinking something else, there was no evidence of it.
Eyeing her over his glasses, he asked in a reasonable enough tone, “Where’ve you been? It’s been a zoo here.”
“I’m sorry. I had an emergency with Dylan’s eyes. I had to take him into Boston.”
Michael put down the calzone. “What’s the problem?” When Deborah explained, he was visibly upset. “Both eyes now?”
“Aidan says it happens.”
“His eyesight will get worse before it gets better?”
“Looks that way,” Deborah said. “Dylan’s great. He insisted on going to school. Me, I’m barely beginning to process what it means. If I’m in denial, so be it. There’s absolutely nothing I can do about it right now. I just…need to talk with you.”
Michael tossed the pen aside. “If you want to talk about your sister, save your brea
th. I don’t know what to say. I never have when it comes to Jill.”
“Then let’s talk about Mom,” Deborah suggested.
His mouth thinned. “If you’re going to say she’d be pleased, you can save your breath there, too. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d been alive.”
“Dad, Jill’s thirty-four. She’d have done this with or without Mom’s blessing.”
“No. Your mother knew how to deal with you girls.” Removing his glasses, he sat back. “Good God, Deborah, how could you not tell me about this?”
“I didn’t know.” How lovely it was to be able to honestly say that! “Jill wanted to do this on her own.”
“But I’m her father and a doctor. By the way, do we know the doctor she used?”
“Burkhardt. She’s good.”
He gave a grunt. “At least your sister’s learned that much.”
“She’s learned a lot more, Dad. She knew that she wanted a family. That’s what the whole half-sibling thing is about. She wants her child to have family.”
He grunted again and looked away. “That doesn’t say much for her opinion of us.”
“I don’t take it personally,” Deborah said. “My kids are older than Jill’s will be, and, besides, the moms will be a support group for her.”
Michael frowned. “We can’t be that?”
“Dad,” Deborah reminded him, “you weren’t exactly jumping for joy.”
“Are you okay with this?” he asked.
“Now that the initial shock has worn off? Yeah, I am. I always knew Jill loved kids. She’s been fabulous with mine. I always knew she wanted her own. I let myself think of the bakery as her baby, but it isn’t.”
Michael looked down and pursed his lips.
Deborah knew what he was thinking, but she didn’t have the energy to get into that argument again. Besides, the issue of the bakery was old news. “Jill does things her own way.”
“Every child needs a father.”
“In an ideal world, yes. But maybe our definition of ‘ideal’ needs to change. Look at our practice. We’ve seen physical abuse. We’ve seen emotional neglect. A bad dad can be worse than no dad. Besides, it’s not like Jill’s baby will be unique. Half the families in town are either blended or made up of a single parent.”
“And that,” Michael declared, “is why humans, like me, live only so long and then die. The world changes too much for us to accept. The beliefs we’ve lived by for decades become obsolete. If you’d ever told me both of my daughters would be raising children in nontraditional homes, I’d have said you were crazy.” He opened his arms as if to hold a dream, then let them drop. “I wanted better. For both of you. What’s happening? Since your mother’s been gone, it’s all fallen apart.”
“Nothing that’s happened since she died wouldn’t have happened anyway,” Deborah pointed out.
“You’re wrong, missy. She’d have held things together.”
“How?” Deborah argued. “What would she have done? Asked Greg not to leave and, shazam, he’d have stayed? Found a man for Jill and, presto, Jill would have fallen in love? Mom would have been a buffer, that’s all. She would have helped you over the bumps in our lives.”
“Since when do I need help?” he asked indignantly, but Deborah refused to back down.
“Since she died. Mom was always there for you. She filtered things. Now that you don’t have her, things seem worse.”
He shook his head. “She’d have held it together. I mean, Christ, look at your sister. Look at you. I got a call this morning from an investigator wanting to know what our relationship is with John Colby.”
Deborah tensed. “What kind of investigator?”
“He was from the district attorney’s office,” Michael said, “which is apparently investigating your accident.”
If the state police report had cleared her of criminal wrongdoing, the involvement of the district attorney had to do with civil charges. Definitely not what she wanted to hear. “Was it just a phone call, or did they stop by?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out what it was about.” Likely nothing, she told herself. Just a question or two. But why ask about John?
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Michael said sweetly. “Polite as the fellow was, I didn’t have the time to chat with him, because I was running from one patient to the next trying to cover for you.”
“But he did mention the D.A.’s office?”
“Yes, and not once in my entire life have I had a call like that.” He went on the attack—eyes flashing. “This family doesn’t do things that bring the D.A.’s office snooping. You said it was a simple accident. You said you weren’t doing anything wrong. Why in the hell would the D.A.’s office be wanting to know about our relationship with John? Our medical files are privileged. If our patients think that we’re talking, we could lose half our caseload.”
Deborah was more worried about Grace than about their practice. Calls from the D.A.’s office would increase the burden the girl was carrying.
Wondering what the chances were that the call to her father would be the end of it, Deborah said, “We won’t lose patients. The D.A.’s office isn’t asking for medical information.”
“They’re asking for something, and maybe it’s just the start. I don’t know what happened that night, but I’m telling you, if your mother had been alive—”
“—nothing would be different!” Deborah cried. “Enough, Dad. Mom could not have done a single thing to prevent that accident!”
His eyes were wide. “She left me with a mess. What was she thinking?”
“She didn’t plan to die,” Deborah shouted, beside herself.
“Damn right she didn’t plan it, but she died, and where did that leave me? We were supposed to grow old together. We were supposed to travel and enjoy the benefits of working for so long. She was supposed to live longer than me.” He seemed suddenly bewildered.
In that instant, distracted as she was, Deborah understood where Michael was coming from. Anger was a stage of grief.
Leaning over his desk with tears in her eyes, she said, “Listen to me, Dad. When Dylan’s first cornea went bad, I grieved for the perfect child he should have been. I told myself that the diagnosis was wrong. I bargained with God—you know, make his eyes right and I’ll do anything. When that didn’t work I was absolutely furious that my child had to face this. In the end I had no choice. I had to accept it, because that was the only way I could help Dylan.” She straightened. “Grieving is a process. Anger is part of it.” She paused. “Right now, you’re angry that Mom left you alone. But you’re taking it out on Jill and me, and we both need you. You can drink all you want—” she raised a quick hand when his eyes darkened, “but it doesn’t help, Dad. We need you.”
Chapter 16
Deborah phoned John, but he knew nothing about the D.A.’s investigation. She called Hal, was told he was in court, and left a message. Having no information, she said nothing to Grace when she called to check on Jill. She called Greg, but had to leave a message there, too.
She saw patients through the afternoon, and each one, it seemed, had an ongoing issue with loss, from the woman who had lost her job, to the one who had lost her house, to the one who had lost her husband and wasn’t able to sleep, or work, or enjoy her grandchildren. Deborah found herself talking repeatedly about unresolved anger.
Just as she was getting ready to head to the bakery, Karen called. Her voice held an element of fear.
“I think something’s wrong,” she said.
Deborah felt a split second’s panic. “What kind of something?”
“I have a headache that isn’t going away. It’s been a week now.”
A symptom not to be dismissed; still, Deborah had seen her during that time. Her panic eased. “A week?”
“Well, maybe not a week. Maybe three or four days.”
“Why haven’t you told me?” Deborah asked. She put the s
trap of her bag on her shoulder and picked up her paperwork.
“Because I hate reporting every little ache and pain, and I told myself it was nothing. I do forget about it when I’m busy, but as soon as I stop, it’s right there again. It isn’t debilitating, but it nags.” She raced on. “You’re right about what happens every year around the anniversary of my mastectomy, so I’ve been telling myself it’s nothing, but what if it isn’t?”
Deborah left her office. The door to her father’s was open. He had already left. “Where is the pain?”
“It kind of wanders, sometimes around the back, sometimes around the front.”
“Is it causing you nausea or vomiting?” Deborah asked as she put the papers on the business manager’s desk.
“No.
“And I know you’ve been doing the elliptical, so we can assume there’s no loss of feeling in your arms or legs.” She flipped off the lights. “I truly don’t think it’s anything serious, K,” she said as she punched in the alarm. “You can always have an MRI, but let’s see if there might be another cause.”
“Like what?” Karen asked. Clearly, she could think of one cause and one cause alone.
Deborah understood that. “Eye strain. Those new sunglasses you bought. Maybe the prescription is wrong.” She went out and locked the door.
“The prescription’s the same. I only got new frames.”
“Okay, if it’s not eye strain, it could be muscle strain. Are you feeling any tightness at the back of your neck?”
“Yes.”
“That would do it,” Deborah said as she got to her car. It was the only one left in the lot.
“Even when the headache’s at the front of my head?”
“It may be hormonal.”
“My period ended a week ago.”
“Could be that your cycle is shifting.”
“Shifting—as in menopause? I’m too young!”
“Not as in menopause, just shifting, but it could also be from fatigue.” There were more causes for headache than Deborah could count. “How are you sleeping?”
“Poorly.” Sounding discouraged now, Karen added, “I spend half my night looking at Hal.”
The Secret Between Us Page 19
